Child's Play
by domachenkov
Summary: Tooth-rotting cuteness. Oh, and some other stuff. De-aged John and Sherlock!


"John! He's reloading!"

John swore and dragged Sherlock back into cover as the dwarf lined up his blowpipe for another shot. "We've talked about this, you idiot! And YES, poison darts count as cover fire!"

"We have to apprehend him before he reaches Mulholland Court, there's heavy traffic at this time in the evening, and tracking a taxi through CCTV is time consuming at best. John, he is the _only_ lead we have in these John Doe cases and we cannot allow him off these roofs!" Crouched behind the brick balustrade, Sherlock raked his fingers through his curls before closing his eyes and concentrating. "He'll proceed north along the adjacent building until he can go no further, then he'll have to turn left. The easiest way for him to the streets is through the skylight of the apartment behind that building there, which he'll take. He's clearly scouted this area." Sherlock pulled out his phone. "Luckily, he's not us. We can head him off. Come!"

John couldn't quite hold back a grin as he followed Sherlock. Dashing across the roof, they veered to the right and hopped onto the ledge abutting a slightly taller building. Sherlock swung his lean form up with a grace that John envied and turned back, reaching his hand down to John as he said, "it may be cheap for me to remark upon this, but our heights certainly do lend us an edge – there's no way our quarry could have taken advantage of this shortcut."

"Why in the world is he using an actual blowpipe?" John asked as they hurried past a rooftop garden. "A tranq handgun would be smaller and lighter, not to mention easier to shoot. It'd have a greater range, too."

"John, of course! Brilliant! Did you see how he was holding the blowpipe?" Sherlock imitated the way he'd gripped his armament. "He is definitely unaccustomed to its size, which suggests an amateur marksman – someone unused to serious crime, or he would have brought a more appropriate weapon, one he was more comfortable with – did you see –"

"Blimey, Sherlock, I could barely make out that it _was _a blowpipe."

"…Perhaps you should consider glasses? Or carrots? For pity's sake, you're a doctor, fix it – I can't have a half-blind blogger on my hands."

"It's _dark_, you dick. Go on again, what did you see?"

"Observing in poorly lit scenarios is a matter of concentrating your attentions on only things of importance. Stance, weaponry, stature; all of these can be gleaned quickly and accurately, especially if the subject is backlit, which our little friend was." Sherlock reached the fire ladder at the edge of the roof and shimmied down to the roof of the level below, pausing for John to follow. "He was holding the blowpipe in entirely the wrong way for his height, though he seems to be familiar with general criminality and is professional enough to do reconnaissance work."

"What does that mean, then?"

"We'll find out. Look – there's the skylight now."

"Sherlock!" John grabbed his friend's coat and hauled him back against the wall. "We can't just stand at it and wait, we need a plan, I don't have my…" He patted his back waistband and raised his eyebrows meaningfully at Sherlock, who threw up his hands.

"All right, you peacock," John muttered. "I don't see you bringing it everywhere we go either. But the point stands, we don't have a gun and we can't make ourselves sitting ducks."

"Too late, you buggers!"

John jerked around at the sound of the clear, high voice and raised his hands in the air as the blowpipe extended from the shadows and trained on him. Sherlock closed his eyes and leaned his forehead against the brick wall, clenching his fists.

"Now just stay where you are… I can fill my lungs and blow long before you'd make it over to me."

"Stupid, _stupid…_ you knew we would take this route," said Sherlock.

"Hunter becomes hunted, eh? He told me you'd follow me like this, helped me plan right. Seems excessive to me, but hey, he's paying. "

"He?" said Sherlock.

"He said you know who already, if you asked."

His voice annoyed Sherlock – too high and nasal and whining. But then, he reasoned, he was working with significantly shorter vocal chords than the average adult. The pedantic attempt at creating an air of cloak-and-dagger mystery annoyed him even more, though it did confirm what he suspected.

"Moriarty."

"Good! You at least know who to thank for this present I'm delivering. Now turn around slowly and face me."

"Why should I?"

"Sherlock," said John, "_turn around._"

As he obeyed, he saw what was causing John's tense confusion and immediately added a comprehensive study of vocal analysis to his to-do list.

Their opponent was not a dwarf.

He was a _child._

He had moved into the light cast by the roof's floodlights, still aiming the blowgun steadily as he said, "Just spreading the love, chaps. Or sharing the misery – either way, you'll understand soon enough."

Then he shot them both and everything went dark.

* * *

><p>"I swear, sir, it's like he <em>tries<em> to apprehend criminals just as we're due off work."

"Sally, he…" D.I. Lestrade stopped. Donovan's complaint was hard to counter when the exact same thought had crossed his mind mere minutes before. He sighed and rallied, "he gets results. And it's our job to respond. Has anybody reached the scene yet?"

"Lieutenants Phillips and Moore just arrived, but they're still on the ground and have a bit of area to cover – if all Holmes gives us to go off of is 'roofs,' then he should expect a bit of a wait."

"He texted which city block he meant, too," Greg protested. At Sally's look, he straightened and said "No, don't give me that. It's helpful and you know it – without him, we wouldn't even have this lead." He turned the patrol car onto Court Street as Sally listened to her radio.

Sally sat up straight. "How much longer until we get there?"

"Two minutes, maybe," said Lestrade. "Traffic could be better."

"They found something."

* * *

><p>"Where are the kids?" Lestrade demanded, short of breath after climbing four flights of stairs.<p>

Lieutenant Phillips pointed and Donovan immediately started to jog in the indicated direction. "That way sir – we didn't want to move them. Paramedics are on their way. Unconscious, the both of them, but they're breathing fine."

"Good thinking, Lieutenant. Now, why in _hell _are there unconscious children in the same place we've been informed that a suspected murderer could be found?"

"We don't know, sir – once we stumbled upon them, Moore stayed with them while I cleared the immediate area, but we haven't seen anybody else – not even Dr. Watson or Mr. Holmes, like you said to look for."

"Christ. Okay. Head downstairs and lead the medics up when they get here, then we'll worry about the rest of it."

"Yes sir." Lieutenant Phillips turned to hurry down the stairs and Greg set off across the roof.

As he came within range, Donovan held out an evidence bag. "They both were darted. Moore removed the darts to minimize exposure to whatever this coating is, but there's no telling how much of a dose each got. At least we've got a sample this time."

"This fits the profile, then."

"The weapon does, but the ages… most of the victims were young, but not _this_ young. There's also the matter of their clothes…"

"What?" asked Lestrade. His stomach dropped as he actually observed the crumpled forms that Lieutenant Moore was kneeling above.

The children were wearing adult-sized clothing that fit so poorly that the smaller one's feet didn't even extend past the hem of the purple silk shirt he was clad in, much less into his empty trousers, but the fit wasn't what arrested Lestrade's attention: the clothes themselves were identical to what John and Sherlock had been wearing that afternoon.

"Bloody hell_,_" said Lestrade.

"Right," said Donovan. "Either two little boys were abducted and forced to dress in Dr. Watson and the Freak's clothing for some reason, or else…"

Or else.

Shit.

"First check for missing persons fitting their descriptions," he ordered. "But if that turns up nothing, I'll call Sherlock's brother." If this was what he suspected, the elder Holmes would have access to resources the Yard didn't.

"It makes sense, though, doesn't it? Why we couldn't ID any of the victims? They wouldn't have turned up in the system if they'd been alacazam-ed to look decades younger than they're supposed to," said Donovan as she dialed up her contact at Missing Persons.

Lieutenant Moore looked up. "You think this is magic?" she asked. "But I've barely even _heard_ of magic being used for serious crime - I thought you specifically _couldn't _hurt anybody with magic."

"You can't, not directly. And it's always temporary. But the victim's causes of death so far _haven't _been magical – if this_ is_ aging magic, it's not breaking any laws of enchantment." _Theoretically, _Greg mentally amended. He was rapidly reaching the outer bounds of his knowledge on the subject - in a world where magic was almost exclusively confined to novelties and curiosities, seeing it outside of the cheap tricks at circuses or museums was rare. And even then only in circles that could afford it – the energy requirements for magic larger than things like enchanting paper airplanes were exorbitant, to industry's perpetual disappointment.

"All Missing Persons has for missing children today is a fifteen year old runaway and baby in the middle of a custody dispute. Is there a way we could confirm that these actually are wee versions of John and Sherlock?"

"I don't know why I didn't think of this earlier - check that one's eye – Sherlock has that one brown spot above his pupil. Heterochromia or something. That doesn't develop later in life, does it?"

Sally crouched down by the small boy engulfed by Sherlock's enormous coat and brushed his dark curls away from his forehead. She opened both his eyelids, noting with relief that his pupils were responsive.

"Yes. It's definitely him. Strange, he was such a sweet looking child, isn't it? Knowing how he is now?"

Greg had to admit that this miniature version of Sherlock was, in fact, nothing short of adorable. "Hope he's as sweet once he's awake – I dread to think what kind of terrible-two-year-old Sherlock was."

"Paramedics are here!" called Lieutenant Phillips as he led them across the roof.

"They're not going to be able to do anything if all," said Sally. "Not if the only thing wrong with them is magic."

Greg closed his eyes. "Let them look them over, just in case," he told her. "I'll call Mycroft and tell him to meet us here. He'll know what to do."

* * *

><p>The paramedic confirmed that a trip to A&amp;E would be pointless for a magical malady, informing Lestrade and Donovan that magic was known to react unpredictably to modern medical devices and that the last curse victim their hospital had treated had exploded within their MRI machine.<p>

"Best to let these things wear off on their own, but he insisted – he'd been cursed so that he had knobs sprouting out of all sorts of unexpected places, you see. Wanted to make sure they weren't growing inside of him, too. Can't say I blame the bugger, but these sorts of things almost never last longer than a week – better to let magic take its course, wouldn't you say?"

"I believe your point has been clearly communicated, thank you," said Mycroft as he approached with his assistant. "If that is all, gentlemen…"

"Yeah, we'll clear out as soon as we're done packing up. But here, take a shock blanket for the tykes in case they get cold – I know they've got their adult sized coats, but it is a bit nippy tonight, innit?" He shoved a bright orange monstrosity into Mycroft's arms. "You'll want to get them kiddie clothes too, but make sure they're not too sturdy – if this type of spell reverts suddenly, you don't want eight pounds of sausage in a five pound bag, now do ye?"

"Decidedly not," said Mycroft, handing the blanket to his equally unimpressed assistant.

"Thanks for getting here so quickly, Mycroft – they've started to stir, but haven't fully woken yet," said Greg. "We don't know what their mental state will be and we hope it'll go easier if they've got some familiar faces around."

Greg knew that Sherlock and his brother had their differences, but it was hard to stop his heart from melting just a little at the sight of Mycroft staring down at his little brother with something that on anybody else he would have described as tenderness.

"My brother has _never_ made anything easy, familiar faces or no," Mycroft responded after a long pause, still looking over his Sherlock's small form.

"We think he's about two," offered Greg. "We're guessing John's about six."

Mycroft seemed to shake himself and turned back to Greg. "Their mental statuses upon waking should tell us more about what class of spell this is - whether this is a simple physical rejuvenation spell, such as older celebrities occasionally use for photo shoots, or something more intricate."

"I know, trust me, that your brother makes enemies everywhere he goes, but who could have done this? The energy required has got to be bloody expensive – if they've been doing this to all the victims, they must have serious resources."

"I must admit, Detective Inspector, that I find myself less concerned with the 'how' than the 'why.'"

Greg nearly shivered at the darkness that crept into Mycroft's voice as he spoke. He'd been thinking the same thing – that what the perpetrator wanted with very young versions of Sherlock and John was unlikely to be anything good.

"Sir! I think John's waking up!"

The small blond boy gave a tiny moan and opened his eyes.

"John? It's okay, it's all right. You're just fine," soothed Sally. "Do you know who I am?"

John looked like he was having trouble focusing his eyes on Donovan. He clumsily pulled his half-empty sleeves from his heavy jacket and pushed himself into a sitting position. He looked around in confusion and froze when he noticed Sherlock beside him, then darted suspicious glances around at the adults as if sizing up a threat.

"John?" Sally prompted.

He refocused on her and scrunched up his brow in concentration. He wet his lips and said, "Sally. You're Sally."

"Good! That's good. Do you know where you are?"

John bit his lip and looked like he was racking his brains, but instead of answering he just looked overwhelmed. He shook his head.

"That's okay for now, John," reassured Greg. It'd been awhile since his kids had been this young, but he could recognize a child in quiet distress when he saw one. He reached out a hand to comfort him, but froze when John gave a full body flinch.

"All right," Greg said slowly, withdrawing his hand. He glanced up at Donovan and Mycroft, who were staring at the six year old John with surprise. He refocused his attention on the upset boy in front of him, who looked furious with himself at having recoiled. "John?" he asked gently. "You've been enchanted with some sort of de-aging spell. Do you recognize me?"

John blew out a breath. "Yeah. But it's hard."

"Can you explain exactly what you mean by that, John?" asked Mycroft. "The more we know about your condition, the better able we will be to help you and Sherlock."

John immediately looked to the unconscious toddler on his right, turning back to Mycroft with a fearful silent question.

"Obviously, he is affected by the same magic as yourself," said Mycroft, "but he is otherwise unharmed. Anything you can tell us might be of use."

John was quiet for awhile, organizing his thoughts. "It's like everything was a long time ago in my head. Like you had different opinions about the world when you were twelve, and you remember you did, but it's hard to actually put yourself in that mindset again. I recognize you, but not from my normal viewpoint. I have to think about it. _Remember_ it."

"Clearly this isn't just a physical spell, in that case. There's some mental and perhaps emotional component as well, especially taking into account John's current emotional state," said Mycroft to the others, ignoring John's frown. "Would you say that your childhood memories are more accessible than those of your adulthood, John?"

"Not really," the child answered slowly. "They seem about the same as normal – a long time ago."

"Are your current reactions and emotions typical of those of your childhood?"

"I don't _know_," said John, pushing himself to his feet. His jumper went all the way to his ankles and his sleeves brushed the ground. "How well do you remember exactly how you felt about stuff when you were – umphff!" He cut off with a shocked cry.

The adults surrounding John watched with alarm as a spectacular bruise bloomed across the left side of his face.

"This definitively answers the question of what class of aging spell this is – this is something like rewinding and fast-forwarding a person's growth. Physically, their bodies should give fair representations of their states throughout their life as they age at an accelerated rate," said Mycroft. "Probably until they again reach their chronological age – I assume John was given a bruise like this when he was young. John? Is that the case?"

John's grimace looked out of place on his youthful face. "Probably."

Donovan and Lestrade exchanged troubled glances.

"It seems as though mental age may be reflected as well, though not the actual memory content – rather, John has displayed a tendency to revert towards reactions and emotions which I can only imagine correspond to his physical age."

"You mean we have to live through every injury we've ever had again?" John asked, visibly agitated. "I've been _shot!_"

"Every illness, too," Mycroft pointed out, watching with interest as John's bruise very slowly faded from sight. "If it's any consolation, the healing process _is_ incredibly accelerated."

"But I think… It's more intense. All the pain is crammed together." John protested.

"Is it? Fascinating."

"Mycroft!"

"Apologies, Detective Inspector, but you must admit the academic appeal."

Lestrade gave him a look.

"This seems to be a loophole to the 'do no harm' clause of magic, as it doesn't harm them directly or even intentionally, but rather just physically repeats what a body has already experienced. That _is_ interesting, and potentially useful…" Mycroft paused and continued, "but for now perhaps we should focus on some sort of counter-measure – I'm sure neither John nor Sherlock would find replaying their entire physical history pleasant. "

"We've got pretty limited time for that – they should be all grown up by the end of the week at the latest, and custom spells usually have a wait period," said Lestrade.

"Not to mention counter-spells are even more expensive than primary spells," added Donovan. "But we might have some success with local anesthetics, if they know when they were injured and if we can estimate their current ages with any accuracy."

John was looking more and more upset the longer they talked, clearly struggling not to burst into tears. He looked younger like that than he had all night, and Greg reflected that John must have been concentrating with his full strength to keep his communication on such an adult level. However, it seemed those reserves were nearly tapped out – Lestrade could tell when a child was almost at the end of their rope.

He was therefore surprised when John was not the one who started to cry.

The attention of everybody on the roof snapped towards Sherlock as he, in the space of a breath, went from lying peacefully curled up in his pile of clothing to screaming bloody murder. He thrashed about, trapped inside his shirt and coat, howling the insistent, confused cry of a child in pain.

Lestrade hurried forward and scooped up the struggling toddler, handing him to Donovan so he could check Sherlock over for injuries that could be causing his distress. A small dark stain against the purple fabric of his shirt caught his eye and he flipped the hem up to expose a cut on his chubby knee that was already scabbing over beneath the blood.

"Well, that explains that," said Lestrade.

Sherlock's wails audibly changed from crying in pain to crying in fear as his skin knit back together. Donovan hitched him up against her shoulder and rocked where she stood, trying to comfort the kicking and sobbing two year old.

"Honey, it's okay, it's okay, calm down sweetie, it's all – OW!"

Donovan luckily had the presence of mind not to drop the kicking, sobbing, _biting_ toddler straight to the ground and instead deposited him safely back on top of his coat, fingers flying to her neck to inspect the dentition marks he'd left in her flesh.

Sherlock, with wobbling chin and wide eyes, pushed himself unsteadily to his feet and looked up at the adults with such an anxious distrust that Lestrade hurt to see it.

"Sherlock?" said John, and Sherlock's head whipped around to stare at the boy next to him. Clear relief bloomed across his face and he stumbled forward - tripping on his shirt - to bury his tearstained face against John's midsection, clenching onto tiny fistfuls of John's jumper through the fabric of his much-too-long shirtsleeves.

"It's okay, Sherlock," continued John, wrapping his tiny friend up in a hug, his jumper sleeves trailing down Sherlock's back. Sherlock nuzzled closer and fractionally relaxed.

"Well, this is without a doubt going into the staff newsletter this month," said Lestrade, pulling out his camera phone.

"Maybe Gregson will be more willing to work with him when he finds out how precious he is," agreed Donovan, who seemed far more inclined to forgive toddler Sherlock's transgressions.

Mycroft cleared his throat. "This is all very well, officers, but have you given any thought as to what we're going to do with them?"

"Normally, with minors, we can only release them to their parents or guardians. But as they're not truly minors, and as I know for a fact that John's parents are dead, I suppose we can ignore that. They'll probably need supervision though, at least for a few days," said Lestrade, considering. "Family would be best, but I know John and Harry don't get on and I'm not sure I'd want her on childcare duty anyway. Perhaps we could ask Mrs. Hudson?"

Mycroft was quiet for a moment. "I'll call our parents."

Anthea looked up. "Sir?"

"They're in the country and can be here within a few hours. Mummy's always wanted grandchildren, which both my brother and I are unlikely to provide – perhaps this will mollify her for awhile," said Mycroft. "Also, it would be best for my little brother to be handled by caregivers familiar with him as a child – poor Mrs. Hudson would be completely unprepared for such a task."

"Are you sure about this, Mycroft?"

"Very."

"All right, then," said Greg. "We'll take them to Baker Street and stay with them until your parents arrive, but there's still the matter of…" he cut off as John gave an agonized cry.

Apparent even through his bulky jumper, John's arm wrenched into an unnatural position that shifted up and straightened out almost as soon as they looked at him.

Still gasping in residual pain, John defensively pushed Sherlock behind him as Donovan and Lestrade both lurched forward in reaction to his suffering. Sally and Greg froze.

"John?" said Lestrade, holding out his hands in a settling gesture. "I'm sorry. It's just us. We're not going to hurt you."

John's defiant, protective stance relaxed as he seemed to remember what was going on, leaving him looking drained. "Sorry," he said. "Dislocated shoulder. I'd forgotten about it." He scrubbed his jumper sleeve across his wet face.

Sherlock crowded back against John, his anxious face demanding that John be all right.

"I'm okay, Sherlock, look," said John, slipping out of his jumper's sleeves and pulling it over his head, leaving him clad in only his vest. He pushed up the loose sleeve of the undershirt, providing proof that his shoulder was now fine with the exception of some lingering bruises about the joint.

Donovan's mouth became a grim line as John's jumper was shed, leaving the deep bruising on his forearm in clear sight, the finger marks of an adult hand impressed into his young skin. She raised her eyebrow when she met Lestrade's gaze, and he shook his head – this was a surprise to him as well.

Mycroft retrieved the shock blanket from where his assistant had set it down and shook it out, silently offering it to John, who took it and wrapped both himself and Sherlock in the bright orange knit.

"We should get them home, Detective Inspector," said Mycroft. "It's too cold a night to keep them out here, and they look tired."

"You're right, Mycroft, but we still need to make sure we've got someone to look after John – I know your parents are coming up for Sherlock, but –"

"Even as young as he is now, John's first instinct is to protect and comfort my brother," Mycroft interrupted. He looked back at his younger brother, who was clutching around John's waist. "I'm certain that my parents will be happy to look after him alongside Sherlock."

"Let them know what they may have to deal with in John's case, then," said Greg. "The symptoms we've seen so far… and we have no idea for how long that sort of thing went on."

"I'll ensure they're fully briefed."

"All right then. Sergeant Donovan, have Phillips or Moore found anything else on these roofs?"

"No, sir."

"Tell them they can head out, then. Mycroft, will you call ahead to John and Sherlock's landlady and let her know to expect us?"

"Already done," said Anthea.

"I believe it would be unwise to leave these two without security while they are so defenseless, Detective – it would be appreciated if you and Sergeant Donovan would stay with us until our parents arrive," said Mycroft.

"What's a little more Sherlock-related overtime? A drop in the bloody bucket, that's what. Sally?"

"I don't mind, sir, but _you_ get to be the one to carry him down to the car."

"We'll meet you at Baker Street, then, Mycroft – Mrs. Hudson will get a kick out of this."

* * *

><p>"Oh my stars, they're so little! Look at the dears!" fussed Mrs. Hudson as she let Greg and Sally into 221B.<p>

"Do you have somewhere I could set him down?" asked Greg, arms full of sleepy toddler. "Apparently car rides put him out like a light when he was young."

"Of course, set the wee mite down in his chair there, he'll like that. I'll make us all some tea, shall I?"

"Thank you, Mrs. Hudson," said Sally as John tugged his hand out of hers and went across the room, climbing into his own chair and closing his eyes in exhaustion.

Mrs. Hudson bustled into the kitchen. Sally and Greg took a seat on the couch and watched as, removed from the tranquilizing effects of the police cruiser, Sherlock stirred back into alertness. His eyes settled on John in the seat across from him and a tiny pucker in his brow appeared. Clearly dissatisfied with seating arrangements, Sherlock scooted to the edge of his chair and clambered down to the floor. He crossed to John's chair and grabbed hold of John's ankle. When John opened his eyes, he held out his arms in a silent plea to be lifted.

John smiled down at his friend. "Come on up, Sherlock," he said, hauling him on to the armchair.

Greg was tempted to take out his camera phone again as Sherlock – there's no other word for it – _snuggled_ into John and closed his eyes, looking like he was settling in for a nap.

"They are angels, aren't they? Hard to see some days, but it's always there," said Mrs. Hudson as she brought out tea and biscuits.

"Some days, _very_ hard to see," said Mycroft from the doorway. He turned to address Lestrade. "Our parents should be here by midnight and security is being arranged." He helped himself to a biscuit and sat down in Sherlock's recently vacated seat.

Sherlock glared, and then wavered. He sat up and leaned forward as if he wanted to move nearer to Mycroft and then shrank back against John, confusion and frustration painted across his face. Tears started sliding down his cheeks as and he turned to bury his face in the shock blanket still wrapped about John.

"My baby brother seems to be undergoing a sort of cognitive dissonance between the emotions of his younger self and the engrained habits of his present," observed Mycroft. "Though he didn't speak until he was four, he has always had strong opinions and has never had a problem clearly communicating his wishes." He eyed the bite mark visible above Sally's collar before sighing. "It must be difficult for him to be bombarded by contradictory impulses."

"Well, at least he'll grow out of it soon enough," said Greg.

"Speaking of which," said Anthea from the flat's entrance, holding up shopping bags. "Children's clothing in a variety of sizes. Here you go." She handed the bag to Lestrade and escaped the flat.

He sighed and dug through the bag until he found soft, stretchy pajamas that would fit John and Sherlock. "Can you dress yourselves yet?" he asked. Greg felt he deserved the scowl John gave in way of reply. He handed John's clothing to him and was left looking at Sherlock, who stared back as if he was deciding whether or not to kick up a fuss.

"Oh, dear, let me do that," said Mrs. Hudson, veritable saint of Baker Street, as she picked up Sherlock and took his pile of clothes from Greg. She hustled both John and Sherlock into the bathroom and was out again in less than a minute with both of them looking extremely cute in their respective PJs. Sherlock's had little bumblebees printed on the fabric. She settled them back in John's chair and said, "A nice cuppa, then off to bed?"

Greg poured two cups of tea and handed them to her. John took a drink and made a face as if he'd just licked one of Sherlock's experiments, while Sherlock spat his entire mouthful back into his cup and stuck out his tongue in disgust.

Sally sniffed her own cup discreetly, but smelled nothing except strong Earl Grey.

"A child's palate," said Mycroft. "Interesting."

"Sherlock always takes it with milk and sugar anyway," said John. "But I don't, even, and that was _foul._"

"Try it again, dears," said Mrs. Hudson, handing back sweeter, milkier cups. Sherlock eyed his cup with suspicion until John took a sip and found it tolerable. Once their cups were empty, she took them by the hand and tucked them both into Sherlock's bed, kissing them each on the forehead. She watched for a second as they curled sleepily into each other, then turned out the light and headed back into the sitting room.

* * *

><p>"How are they?" asked Mrs. Holmes as soon as she and her husband entered the flat. "May we see them?"<p>

"They're sleeping now," replied Sally. "They're all right, though we did have a bit of an incident a little earlier…"

"John had a broken arm when he was young," said Mycroft, taking his mother's coat. "He woke up screaming about an hour ago, which upset Sherlock to no end. They've only just settled back down and fallen asleep."

"That's horrible, the poor boy!" said Mr. Holmes.

"He _says_ he fell out of a tree."

At Mycroft's tone, Mr. Holmes's face lined with sadness while Mrs. Holmes puffed up in anger.

"The casual mistreatment of children is something I will not tolerate, regardless of how long ago the offense – if his parents weren't dead, we would have words!"

"We don't actually know that he didn't fall out of a tree," cautioned Lestrade. "Even though we've seen a few other signs of physical abuse, John's never actually told us about any of this – he probably didn't want us to know."

"The officer is right, dear," said Mr. Holmes. "The situation makes this invasion of privacy unavoidable, but we should be careful not to overstep."

"Of course, dear, of course," said Mrs. Holmes. "But all the same, it's good that they're already dead."

"You can peek in on the little lambs if you want," said Mrs. Hudson. "They're right back this way."

Mr. and Mrs. Holmes followed Mrs. Hudson to the doorway of Sherlock's room. Mrs. Holmes pressed her hands to her mouth and clutched at her husband's sleeve as they set eyes on their son. He was sleeping peacefully tucked up under the chin of his young flat mate, folded against his chest. They lingered for several minutes in the dim bedroom before carefully withdrawing.

"He's so _young. _ I'd almost forgotten how small he used to be," said Mrs. Holmes. "My baby boy."

"It takes you back, doesn't it?" agreed Mr. Holmes. "Thank you, Mycroft – we wouldn't want to have missed this."

The sincerity in his voice banished any of Greg's reservations about leaving John and Sherlock with them. He was embarrassed to think it, but he'd not been expecting the parents of Sherlock and Mycroft to be openly caring (or indeed so _normal _ – apples and trees and all that.)

"Sergeant Donovan and I will come and check in on you tomorrow. Hopefully we'll have some new information on the case by then," said Lestrade, gathering his coat. "I hope you have a peaceful night, and please, take lots of embarrassing pictures of those two tomorrow."

Mr. Holmes' entire face crinkled up with his smile.

"Mikey, dear, I know your father has already said it, but thank you again for calling us down. Not just to see Sherlock so young again, though that is _such_ a gift, but for John as well. If anyone deserves our gratitude, it's someone who makes one of my sons happy, don't you think?"

"Mummy," protested Mycroft as she pulled his face down to plant kisses on each cheek. He straightened back up, clearing his throat. "Yes. Well. I must go now but I will be in contact tomorrow as well. Goodnight."

"He does love Sherlock deep down," said Mrs. Hudson, watching him leave. "They're both just bad at showing it. Oh! But look who I'm talking to, of course you already know."

"Yes, we used to worry about how poorly they both related to others," said Mrs. Holmes. "That's why we're just thrilled that Sherlock is so well-loved here. It's heartwarming."

"Oh, yes!" Mrs. Hudson exclaimed. "I knew from the minute they moved in that there was something there, though I wish they didn't feel the need to be quite so discreet. I do pride myself on being open minded, after all."

Mr. and Mrs. Holmes shared a glance. "Are they actually in a relationship, then?" asked Mrs. Holmes. "Mycroft has made allusions, but we always suspected he was being snide."

"Oh dear, I thought you knew for certain, when you said how well-loved Sherlock is!"

"I was referring to the wealth of friends he's found here in London," said Mrs. Holmes. "But we'd be terribly excited if it's the other way round, wouldn't we, dear?"

"Love is one of the most important things in life - I can't tell you how unhappy we find the thought of our sons spending their lives alone," agreed Mr. Holmes.

"Well, I've always felt that there was something between them," said Mrs. Hudson slowly. "But you know how thick boys can be. And they've always been very private – I've never even caught them kissing."

"So you don't know either?"

"They've always denied it. Perhaps they don't even know themselves, which is far too depressing to bear thinking about."

"Well, either way, John is obviously important to Sherlock," said Mrs. Holmes. "Which means he's important to us."

"Well said, dear," said Mr. Holmes. "We can't wait to officially meet him when they wake up."

"It may be sooner rather than later, poor things, with their bumps and bruises. We haven't had too much trouble with Sherlock so far, but he seems the type to have gotten into plenty of scrapes when he was little."

"Certainly – why, I remember once having to buy three new first aid kits in one month!"

"I'm sure you'll have your hands full tomorrow - John won't mind if you use his bed for tonight, and you'll be near enough to hear them if they cry. I'll be right downstairs if you need anything, and I'll certainly be back up in the morning – I never had children of my own, you know."

"Thank you, Mrs. Hudson. Good night."

Mr. and Mrs. Holmes went back into Sherlock's room and stayed there for a long time, watching their son and his friend sleep.

* * *

><p>It was late in the afternoon by the time Greg and Sally returned to Baker Street. Upon entering the flat, they both boggled at the sight of John giving Sherlock a piggyback ride.<p>

"Blimey, they grew fast! What are they now? Six? Ten?"

"We think they're growing at the rate of about five years a day. Of course, there's no telling if this a linear curve, but we think a week's estimate for the longevity of this spell may be correct," said Mrs. Holmes.

"Hi Greg, Sally," said John, letting Sherlock slip down from his back to his chair. Sherlock was wearing John's castoffs from last night, while John had graduated to tracksuit bottoms and a white tee shirt.

"We've been taking lots of pictures," said Mrs. Hudson. "Do you want to see? They've certainly kept us on our toes today!" She bustled over and thrust a camera at them without waiting for an answer.

Sherlock being held by his parents, John napping on the couch, John and Sherlock covered in cake batter, running around, in the tub, drinking tea, outgrowing their clothes, sporting gap-toothed grins and baby fat – John and Sherlock's second childhoods were certainly well-documented.

"If you think seeing how much they've grown since last night is strange, wait around until one of them is due for a haircut – the hair just vanishes, it's amazing. Completely breathtaking," said Mrs. Holmes. "Wouldn't you agree, Mycroft?"

"Yes, Mummy," said Mycroft. "If there's a single factor that makes this situation intriguing, it's certainly their _hair._ For Heaven's sake, you might have waited until I've actually seen it happen - I _have_ only just arrived myself. I can hardly wax rhapsodic about a phenomenon I've not witnessed, can I? "

Mrs. Holmes frowned at Mycroft until he looked appropriately penitent.

"Teething is a problem, unfortunately," continued Mr. Holmes to Lestrade. "Apparently adult teeth erupting from the gum is quite painful when spread over a very short amount of time."

"That and the childhood illnesses – if they start looking green at the gills, grab a bucket! Fever and nausea take them _very_ suddenly. I can't even count the number of times they've been sick today," added Mrs. Hudson.

"Twelve, dear," said Mrs. Holmes. "But they bounce back very quickly."

"Unlike us," said Mr. Holmes. "If you and Mycroft are here to stay awhile, would you begrudge me and my wife a lie-down?"

"We hate to miss them when they're like this, but we didn't get much sleep last night," said Mrs. Holmes, with a fondly weary look in John and Sherlock's direction. "While we loved today, it was all we could do to keep up with these two."

"Of course, Mr. and Mrs. Holmes. We'll likely be here awhile anyway," said Sally. "You certainly deserve it, if these two boys got up to half the trouble they normally do."

Mr. Holmes took his wife's hand in his and smiled at her. He stopped in front of Sherlock to ruffle his curls and let his wife kiss his cheek before they left the sitting room to take a well-earned nap.

Sherlock broke the ensuing silence.

"Lestrade," he said, his voice shockingly high compared to his usual baritone. "The case?"

"Oh, he started talking!" said Sally.

"This morning," beamed Mrs. Hudson. "I never imagined that the saying 'they grow up so fast' would ever be this appropriate! In fact, I'd better get back to cooking supper – growing boys _need_ three square meals a day."

"The _case,_" said Sherlock. There was absolutely no coyness in his pout. "John and I are young, not inconsequential. Take me _seriously_!"

"I would say that would be easier were you not starting a tantrum, but they're a hallmark of your adulthood as well," said Mycroft.

"Also, inconsequential? Quite precocious with that vocabulary, isn't he," said Sally.

The glare Sherlock leveled at them was adorable. He opened his mouth.

"Okay, the case," said Greg, cutting off his verbal abuse before it began. He had no doubt that if any six year old could needle Sally into overlooking their inherent cuteness, it would be Sherlock Holmes. "We have no new information ourselves," he continued, turning to Mycroft, "but you said your people intercepted a package addressed to here this afternoon? Something about a picture book?"

"Indeed," said Mycroft. "I have it here with me. It's been thoroughly inspected, as you can imagine." He pulled out a small cardboard children's book and set it on the coffee table. "The text has been forwarded to your office, but it remains somewhat obscure."

Lestrade picked it up. _The_ _Storyteller Plays a Game_ was printed in block lettering across the front. He flipped it open to find a web address on the first page.

"My people tried to investigate that site," said Mycroft, "but it has so far eluded their skills. I'm told the site delivered a message informing them that they were attempting access from an improper IP address."

"What, it only works on a certain computer?" said Sally.

"Don't strain yourself, Sally," said Sherlock. "It was sent to _me_, after all – which is why you should really _let me see it._"

"While we confirm the suspicions of Sherlock's budding egomania - Mrs. Hudson, would you bring Sherlock's laptop over here? – perhaps you could read out the rest of the book for us, Detective Inspector," said Mycroft.

Lestrade frowned as his eyes moved over the text. He cleared his throat and started to read, flipping the cardboard pages after each verse:

"Ten little children

Went out to dine

Order one poison

And then there are nine

Nine little children

Isn't this G.R.E.A.T?

Steal one away

And then there are eight

Eight little children

Two are named Kevin

One is a murderer

Choose your seven

Seven little children

With felons in the mix

Pick one to burn

And then they'll be six

Six little children

Want to stay alive

Who's the last victim?

You can only keep five.

"Jesus," finished Lestrade. "What the hell."

Sherlock's laptop chirped.

"The website loaded," said Mycroft. He turned the screen so it could be viewed by everybody in the room.

A cartoon spider danced across the page and **hello Sherlock** appeared in a speech bubble above its head.

**I have a game for us to play. Smile! It's very fun…**

"Bloody effing psychopaths, Sherlock, you're like a honeypot to them," said Lestrade.

**Asking an adult for help, Sherlock? That's **_**cheating…**_

**But maybe I'll allow it, now that I can see how tiny you are. You'll need all the help you can get if your brain shrunk as much as the rest of you ;-)**

"Did it hear me?" asked Lestrade. "Is it responding to us?"

"Both the camera and microphone are on, sir," confirmed Sally. "They can see us but we can't see them."

Lestrade repressed a shudder.

"What do you want?" asked Sherlock, addressing the animated spider.

**Ready to play?**

**I have ten guests with me tonight.**

The screen changed to video footage of children with nametags pinned to their clothes; the camera panned until all ten children had been covered. Some showed evidence of having cried recently. Most looked afraid.

"Jesus Christ," Lestrade said again. He pulled out his phone and began to record.

**The present I sent you**, said the spider. **That's your rule book.**

"I don't understand," said John. "What does it mean, rules?"

**Quiet, pet. This puzzle is for Sherlock. **

"You're planning on killing five of them," said Sherlock. "With poison, fire, I don't know what else."

**But that's not all, is it?**

"No," answered Sherlock, frowning. "You want _me_ to pick which ones die. Why?"

"Should we be letting him do this, sir?" asked Sally. "He _is_ only six."

Lestrade was wondering the same thing. As he raised a questioning eyebrow at Mycroft, new black text appeared on the screen.

**Stop our game and they all die**

Well. Edging out of view of the computer's camera, Lestrade wrote MISSING PERSONS on a sticky note and handed it to Donovan, who caught his eye and nodded, pulling up her phone.

**Think Sherlock**

**Why does it matter if you choose who dies?**

…

**God you've gotten stupid**

**Think**

"The only reason the choice would matter," said Sherlock, looking frustrated, like he was grasping for something just out of reach, "is if the choices are different. Substantially different."

**Warmer**

**Come on, Sherlock, look at yourself**

**The answer was practically hand delivered to you**

**You're living evidence**

"Oh! They're not all children!"

**Five innocents, five hardened criminals**

**As innocent as small children can be, anyway**

**And you get to pick who lives.**

**Having fun yet?**

"I don't want to play now," said Sherlock. "Not yet. Wait until I'm older," Sherlock's voice rose. "Just a week or so!"

**Oh no Sherlock, that wouldn't do at all…**

**They're under a different spell than you**

**They won't visibly grow (that would spoil the game)**

**But it doesn't last as long**

**A few days, at most**

**So we'll start…**

**NOW**

The screen flicked back to the children, who were seated all along one side of a long dining table. They were tied to their chairs. A large tray holding nine bowls of soup and a lone plate of fish and chips sat in the middle of the table.

**I'll give you a few minutes to mull over this food for thought**

**And you'll need to play the hostess and choose who eats what**

Lestrade reached over and pulled up the control menu, disabling the microphone and camera. He left the footage of the children up.

"I don't want to," repeated Sherlock. "I _can't._"

"Of course you can't," said Mycroft.

"It's too hard to _think_," said Sherlock, his unsteady voice revealing his upset. "I can't – my mind palace is completely gone!"

Mycroft paused. "Little brother," he said. "Five children and five imposters? I assure you that even your adult self would struggle with this. We've been given no information but their first names and the assurance that one of them is to die, ostensibly of poisoning. Five girls and five boys, all of similar apparent ages. Similarly clothed. None have spoken, all show signs of emotional distress. The data is simply insufficient to determine who the real children are."

This didn't actually seem to make Sherlock feel better. "But I still have to pick someone!" he protested.

Lestrade sat up straight. "Sally? Anything? Maybe we could narrow it down for him."

"Sorry, sir - I had Hopkins run a nationwide search, nothing. Whoever this is either using kids that won't be missed or they've found a way to shut up the families."

"You may just have to pick at random," said Mycroft.

"This isn't _right_," said John. "He's a kid, we feel like kids, you can't make him choose who dies!"

"Life is not always so kind as that," said Mycroft. "Especially for my brother."

The spider appeared on the screen again.

**Time's up, Sherlock**

**Turn my eyes and ears back on**

…**Who gets the fish?**

"I don't know," said Sherlock. "I can't answer, there's not enough data and my mind won't work!"

**Choose **

**Or I'll choose for you**

**It's no fun if you don't play the game =P**

"So?" said Sherlock. "Didn't you hear me? I don't know!"

**I'll choose**_** two**_** children to eat the fish**

**You have five seconds**

**Four**

**Three**

"Wait! Stop! STOP!" cried Sherlock. "I'll do it, I'll pick one." He clenched his small hands into fists before jabbing at the screen. "That one. The girl on the end."

The view shifted back to the children. They were evidently informed of their situation – though there was no audio, the girl Sherlock had chosen clearly started screaming and crying. A masked man came on screen and distributed the bowls of soup, saving the plate of fish for last. The man said something to the struggling girl and then pulled out a gun, sweeping it along the table. Every other child started to eat immediately. He took the gun and pointed it directly between the girl's eyes until she put a bite of fish in her mouth and, choking on tears and snot, swallowed.

Lestrade turned away from the sight to see Sherlock's huge eyes fixed on the screen instead. He was pale and trembling. He knelt down next to him and put his hands on his small shoulders.

"Don't look, Sherlock, Sally was right, you're too young for –"

"LOOK!" cried Sherlock, wiggling free of Greg and pointing to the screen. He looked horrorstricken.

In the video feed, one of the boys started clawing at his throat and flailing. They watched in aghast silence as his struggles grew weaker and weaker until they stopped completely. The camera trained on the boy's still body for several long seconds and then panned across the shocked faces of the other nine children until the cartoon spider replaced the footage.

**So ends round one, my darling boy**

**What did you think?**

"But I didn't pick him," said Sherlock numbly. "I didn't… the poison. Not the fish."

**Oh, it was in the fish too**

**That's what makes this so clever**

**I can see your little mind working so hard. I'll give you a hint. Because I'm so nice =)**

**Ask what kind of soup was served when I send my next present your way**

**10:00 tomorrow morning we'll play again**

**Don't let the bedbugs bite!**

The screen went dark.

* * *

><p>When the call came in from Molly a half hour later, Greg was beginning to seriously worry about the ramifications of traumatic (second) childhood experiences upon the adult psyche. Sherlock was badly rattled and John was drawn.<p>

"Greg," said Molly, her voice tinny over the phone, "I know it's late and you're probably off-duty but a body just showed up in front of the hospital with a bow on it and one of those present tags, it says 'To Sherlock,' I think you should send somebody down, it's a _kid…"_

Greg pinched the bridge of his nose. He could feel a headache coming on. "Is the kid Asian? Buzz cut?"

"…yes? Do you know who it is?"

"I'll be down as soon as possible, but we have a bit of a situation with Sherlock… Some psycho's using aging magic and he's currently about six. And pretty upset. Should I bring him?"

"He's a kid? Er, Greg? Did you just ask… if I think you should bring an upset little boy to a morgue to look at a dead child?"

"Well, when you put it like _that_… I mean, he's not exactly an actual kid," defended Lestrade.

"Actual or no, I'm putting my foot down!"

He was impressed by the firm resolve in her voice. "All right, Molls. It's probably better I leave him home anyway – he's been on the verge of tears for the past twenty minutes. He's trying to hide it, but I guess he developed that heart of granite act of his when he was older. I'll tell you more when Sally and I get there – see you soon."

He hung up and sighed, pulling his coat on.

* * *

><p>Mycroft had returned to his office and was in the middle of delicate negotiations upon which rested the fate of South Korean military sovereignty, the outcome of several UN convention violations, and the careers of several prominent K-pop stars when Lestrade rang his number. He made his excuses and ended the teleconference, rising from his desk.<p>

"And just what did the autopsy reveal?"

"The soup was peanut soup. The kid apparently died of acute anaphylaxis. No trace of any conventional poison, and Molly did a full panel."

"What is food to one man is bitter poison to others," quoted Mycroft.

"I scanned his prints and forwarded them to the Yard – we'll see if they turn up a match. I don't know if our recognition software will be able to account for the difference between a child's thumbprint and their adult prints, but we might as well try."

"_If _the victim was one of the criminals, and _if_ they have ever been caught and printed, then it's possible."

"There's another thing – the Yard wants Sherlock brought in tomorrow. They think, and I agree, that we'd have quick access to more resources if we were onsite during this sick game."

"As long as they are well monitored, I have no objections. Oh, and Lestrade – Sherlock believes that Moriarty is involved."

"I'll definitely keep you updated."

* * *

><p>Lestrade and Sally picked John and Sherlock up early the next morning. Both were now dressed in size-forgiving track pants, though John had a bag with a change of his regular clothes with him as well. At his current rate of growth, John suspected he'd hit nearly his full grown height by the end of the day. Mr. and Mrs. Holmes waved them off, as Sherlock (who was now about nine) had made it perfectly clear that he would not have his parents following them into work.<p>

Sally pulled away from the curb as Lestrade turned in his seat to brief John and Sherlock. "So here's the good news – the dead kid turned up in the system almost as soon as they ran the prints. Name's Marvin Wong. He was actually a fifty-nine year old ex-business executive who was arrested and sentenced several years ago for corporate negligence resulting in the deaths of several infants. He worked for an infant formula manufacturer where a large quantity of product was improperly stored and contaminated with mold. He was proven to not only have been responsible for reprocessing and distributing the contaminated batch, but also to have been involved with the subsequent attempts at a cover up when it became clear that infants and toddlers with severe mold allergies were becoming critically ill."

Sherlock became very still as he spoke, closing his eyes. When he opened them again, Lestrade could see that a small weight had been lifted from him.

"Also, the autopsy found nothing but a peanut allergy and a bellyful of peanut soup."

"What?" asked John. "That's it? No actual poison?"

"But…" Sherlock trailed off, a wrinkle forming in his brow. He sat back and frowned out the window.

When they pulled up to NSY, Lestrade winced. "Oh, I should also warn you that the teams you work with are pretty excited to see you. Expect a lot of cameras."

John grinned when they made it up to the office and he saw that some officer's screensavers had already been replaced by a picture of toddler Sherlock wearing his bumblebee pajamas, giggling up at the camera holder. He was less amused when he saw the one of him and Sherlock cuddled up in bed, fast asleep.

They were herded into a small conference room along with several familiar officers. Grainy enlarged photos of the hostage children were spread out on the table. Lestrade said, "We've got a bit of time before our scheduled ten a.m. meeting with the perpetrator. Lieutenant Hopkins, tell me what you've learned about G.R.E.A.T."

"There are a couple of different entities that use that acronym, sir," said Hopkins, pulling out a list. "Some that I found include Gang Resistance Education and Training, Genomic Regions Enrichment of Annotations Tool, Great River Environmental Action Team, Global Relief Effort for Adopting Transnationals, and Guaranteed Reduced Exchange Access Tariffs. Some seem less relevant than others, such as the Greenville Area Transit."

Lestrade blew out a breath. "Okay. Any ideas, people?"

"Are any of these even British?" asked John. "Great River probably isn't referring to the Thames."

"I took the liberty of checking the rest after I found out that Greenville was in North Carolina. A few apply internationally, such as the tariffs and the gang training, but I think our most promising lead is the adoption agency. It's based here in London."

"Stealing children," said Sherlock suddenly. He pulled out the picture book. "The second stanza, it's something to do with kidnapping. Illegal adoptions might qualify."

"So you think we're looking for a kidnapper who works for this agency?"

"It makes sense, looking at the last victim – a man who killed children with allergies was himself killed by his allergy. It's appropriate, purposefully so. Check to see if any of their employees have names matching the remaining nine children, or if any are missing."

Sally excused herself to make the call. When she returned (after making a note to order a Child Services inspection of the agency) she announced, "Both are the case. One employee, Marissa Cartwright, did not show up for work yesterday. The physical description her coworker gave me is a reasonable projection of what the child with "Marissa" pinned to her shirt would look like as an adult."

"So Sherlock can choose her, then," said John confidently.

"Is this really what you're doing?" asked Chief Inspector Gregson from the doorway. "Five children's lives at stake and you play along with this psychopath's little game? Do you know what a public relations shit-storm this would be if it got out we were letting a bloody ten year old solve crime?!"

Lestrade squeezed his eyes shut and reopened them. "We've not been given a choice, sir," he said. "He threatened to kill them all; working with Sherlock was one of his demands."

"Even the best case scenario still ends with five people dead! Yes, they're criminals, but this is practically American!"

"We're setting up Sherlock's laptop to try to trace the next communication and end this before it goes much farther. We're doing all we can, sir," said Lestrade.

"Hmpf. See that you do," said Gregson, waddling back to his office.

"It's almost time, sir," said the IT technician, untangling the Ethernet cords and plugging them into Sherlock's laptop. "Everything will record automatically and I've hooked it up to the projector so that everybody can see the screen without being in view of the camera. My team downstairs will start tracing this site as soon as you connect."

"Thank you, Ms. Amendola," said Lestrade. "Ready, Sherlock?"

Sherlock nodded, eyes fixed on the computer screen. He stepped behind the laptop and pasted the address into the bar as all the other people in the room swiveled in their seats to face the projector screen. He hesitated and then pressed enter.

**Did you like my present?** said the spider, tap dancing onto the screen.

"The game was rigged," said Sherlock. "It didn't matter who I chose. Only Marvin Wong was deathly allergic to peanuts. You set it up that way."

**Think of it as a practice round. Peanut soup, fish and chips cooked in peanut oil.**

"There's no way I could have known about the allergy. You let me win on purpose. Why?"

**That's what people DO!**

**They let children win**

**But you're getting older every hour aren't you?**

**Time for the next round…**

"The girl named Marissa," said Sherlock. "Kidnapping, illegal adoption."

**VERY good, smartypants**

**You missed 'human trafficking of minors'**

**Smuggled babies into the country by drugging them, parceling them up, and impersonating mail service**

**But what are technicalities between friends**

**To Sherlock's officers, remember**

**There's a fine line between helping and cheating**

**If there's too much adult interference, I'll end the game myself**

**The next round will be harder**

**Tonight at 19:00**

Without once showing footage of the captive children, the screen cut out.

Lestrade looked over at Amendola, who was phoned in to her department. "Did they get it?"

She paused, listening to the other end of the line, and sighed. "No, sir. They're using multiple proxy servers – we didn't have enough time. Probably not enough skill, either."

Donovan leaned back and looked at Lestrade. "What do we do now?"

"Get ready for the next one," said Sherlock, pulling out the cardboard children's book.

* * *

><p>Sherlock and John were poring over a list of every murderer in the system that had Kevin listed as their first, middle, or last name when the news came in that the Marissa's body had been found. Or, more accurately, dumped right out on the front steps of the NSY.<p>

"How do you lose a big bloody body-dumping van? Especially one that drove right up here, where _police officers _work? Bloody CCTV is so dense nowadays that you can't take a leak in a dark alley without someone watching and you _lose_ it?" raged Gregson. "How does that even happen?"

"The officers that went out to retrieve the body didn't realize what it was at first, sir – the body was packed into a box and the van looked like a standard delivery van. By the time the package was opened and the traffic department notified, the van had disappeared," reported Donovan.

"It VANished," whispered John to Sherlock, who smothered a shocked laugh and shot John a look. John, who felt a little proud of himself, added, "Don't give at me that, apparently you_ liked_ stupid puns when you were little."

"Forensics is looking over the body now," said Lestrade loudly. "We'll keep you updated on our progress."

Gregson snorted, dragging his eyes over Sherlock and John. "See that you do. And Lestrade, if the media gets wind of ANY of this I am personally throwing you under the bus."

Lestrade buried his face in his hands as Gregson stomped out, scrubbing his hair back with his interlaced fingers. "He's partly right, though, isn't he? The spider basically _told_ us that he was going to package her up, it's obvious _now_! How did we not see this coming? Oi, and you two! You're not helping!"

"I'm ten," said Sherlock. "Full of childish innocence and such. Really, Lestrade, there are more productive uses of your time than self-recrimination."

"Oh, is that why you never bother?" said Anderson, entering the room. He handed a manila folder to Lestrade. "Thought you ought to see this, sir."

Lestrade slid prints of forensics photographs out of the folder. Marissa looked like the meal of a spider that spun duct tape instead of webbing – she was cocooned head to toe in the stuff, far beyond what would be necessary. Written in black marker across her chest were the words YOUR NEXT HINT: WHAT DO THE VICTIMS HAVE IN COMMON?

"It appears she suffocated to death – the tape was all over her face when we first got her. Makes you think the children she transported didn't always make it to adoption day. Flip to the next photo – that's the box she was in."

The box was smaller than an average suitcase. The girl's body had evidently been contorted to fit – it was no surprise the officers on the ground floor hadn't immediately recognized it as the delivery of a corpse.

"What about the hint?" asked John. "Other than both being criminals, and fake children, do they have anything in common?"

"We're looking into –" said Anderson.

"It doesn't matter," interrupted Sherlock. "It means the victim-victims, not the victims."

"What?"

"The babies with the formula, the children packed in boxes – the victims of the criminals. They're all children." Sherlock opened his book to the third stanza. "It's why the spider chose them, it's dramatic irony."

"You seem almost happy about this," said Greg. Sherlock shoveled one pile of prisoner profiles toward him and began to sort through another, flipping open folders and tossing reject after reject over his shoulder.

"That's all we have right now, sir," said Anderson. "I'll let you know if anything else turns up." Gathering up the photographs, he paused and eyed Sherlock. He smirked and said, "Sally was right about one thing – you _are_ much cuter like this."

He left to the sweet sound of Sherlock's indignant splutter.

* * *

><p>They narrowed down the list of convicted murderers to sixteen potential Kevins, all of whom had been found guilty of murdering children within the past fifty years. This was a vast improvement over the original pool of over a hundred indiscriminately murderous Kevins.<p>

Unfortunately, that still left fifteen Kevins too many.

Calls to each of the facilities holding the imprisoned suspects (or, in one case, their respective parole officer) had confirmed that all were accounted for.

"Either the murderer is not in the system at all, leaving us with no leads whatsoever, or their disappearance is being covered up," said Sherlock, pulling at his curls. "We're missing something." He ground his fists against his head and despaired at the uselessness of his budding mind palace.

"We just got a memo from Missing Persons," said Lestrade, striding into the room. "One of the families of the kids has come forward to the police. Said they'd been threatened to keep quiet. Kevin Urquhart, age six, the blond one. That's the real kid."

"No!" said Sherlock, his cry stopping Lestrade in his tracks. "You shouldn't have told me, I should have figured it out myself!"

"Sherlock," said Lestrade, annoyance coloring his tone. "This is not just about solving a puzzle."

"No," said Sherlock, giving Lestrade the dirtiest look he'd ever received from a child that age. "Moriarty warned you about being too helpful. He has proven that he has resources, both money and manpower, specifically dedicated to this case – they'll know the Urquharts came forth and delivered the answer to this round into our laps. Does he seem like the type to let such a transgression slide? Can you even conceive of the idea that Kevin Urquhart is in far more danger now than before?"

"Sherlock," said John, resting his hand on Sherlock's shoulder. Sherlock turned away and took a deep breath, and then another.

"Get me the files on the arsonists," said Sherlock, raising his eyes to Lestrade's and forcibly unclenching his fists. "All of them with names of Macie, Eleanor, Todd, Oren, Beatrice, or Adele."

Lestrade nodded. "I already had my team make up the lists."

"And you've looked into Wong's disappearance?"

"I contacted the local enforcement to investigate at his prison as soon as he came up as a match. They've not reported back yet," said Lestrade. He paused. "You didn't ask before."

"It's as Moriarty says," said Sherlock. "We get older every hour."

John nodded. "Already there's a big difference from this morning," he said, looking down at his teenaged body. "Feels less like my mind's swimming in syrup."

"Great. We need you firing on all cylinders. I'll go grab the files, yeah?"

"Can you bring us some food, too? Lunch is a distant memory, not that Sherlock even – UMPH!"

Lestrade watched on helplessly as John's face swelled and darkened as invisible blows rained down. John reflexively curled up, covering his head with his arms to prevent injuries that would not be warded off. Though the attack was quickly over, the moment of shock stretched out. Sherlock flew across the room and hovered like a skinny, agitated vampire as John painfully sat up.

"I'm older than I thought," he said, holding a hand to his ribs. "I'm almost sixteen already."

"I would kill your father slowly and no one would ever find the body," Sherlock hissed. Greg wondered if he should say something to that, but couldn't help but agree with the sentiment and one glimpse of the furious, terrified wetness in the corners of Sherlock's eyes convinced him to hold his silence. As John noticed how Sherlock's claims to sociopathy were leaking like a sponge, Lestrade escaped the room to give them what privacy he could.

"Hey. Sherlock. Listen to me," said John, reaching up to grab Sherlock's wrist. "It was a long time ago."

Sherlock stilled, looking if anything more upset. "John, that you feel the need to comfort _me_ at a time like this… I _hate_ this."

John didn't know if Sherlock was referring to his own current emotional volatility or the physical evidence of John's past now fading from his skin, but it didn't really matter. He stood up and pulled Sherlock toward him in a quick one-armed hug, then gripped his shoulder and said, "I know. It's okay."

When Lestrade reentered the room with the arsonist case files, Sherlock had recovered his mask of control and quickly started flipping through the profiles. Lestrade took a second stack and pulled out a chair next to John, eyeing his mostly-healed face.

"Do you want to talk about it?" he asked, a little uncomfortably.

John quirked a tired smile at him. "Harry came out. Dad got upset and I stepped in. Obviously not my favorite memory, but honestly, I'm more worried about getting shot again."

"Ah," said Lestrade. "Well, Sally has an idea about that, actually. But you're okay?"

"Yeah, Greg, thanks," said John. "Still hungry, actually."

"Right. Well, I'll let you lot look over these and I'll make sure you get some crisps or something. Amendola should be back up in half an hour to make sure the setup's still good for our rendezvous with the spider at seven – I'll let you know if any more evidence turns up before then."

He left John and Sherlock scouring the files for arsonists with child victims.

* * *

><p><strong>Someone's been naughty =0<strong>

**Haven't they, Sherlock**

**I was going to have you interview them; it was going to be **_**clever…**_

**But you've gone and spoiled it, haven't you?**

**I might just have to scrap them both**

The screen flipped to footage of the two Kevins tied up to chairs and gagged, side by side.

"You say in the poem that I can keep five," said Sherlock. "You referred to it as the 'rule book'; it would be a shame for you to renege on that implicit agreement."

**You appeal to my integrity when **_**you're**_** the one cheating?**

"I had nothing to do with the Urquharts coming forth," said Sherlock sharply. "If anything, their actions are a poor reflection upon your ability to control your game pieces."

**Oh, touché Sherlock, really.**

**I'll tell you what. If you can name BOTH of their surnames then I'll let you choose**

**If not, I'm feeling tetchy. I think I know who I'll pick =/**

**Three minutes**

"Urquhart. Urquhart, Urquhart and…" Sherlock reached across the conference table and pulled the stack of Kevins toward him. "One of these."

"What? Why? We've already checked, none of those people are missing!" said Donovan.

"It's unsolvable otherwise," said John. "Moriarty was fine with that when it was all rigged, but now? He'll want something with more meat on it for Sherlock to solve."

"But he said he wanted Sherlock to interview them! Maybe he never intended for us to be able to find them through the system, maybe he-""

"Shut up, shut up!" said Sherlock. He pointed to the screen, where the barrel of a gun was swinging back and forth slowly between each of the Kevin's foreheads. "What kind of gun is that?"

"Hunting rifle," answered Lestrade. "Guns. Gunshot victims?"

"Eliminate everything else," said Sherlock. "Anything that doesn't involve a gun." He threw the files he deemed irrelevant to the side and spread the out the remaining three on the table.

"Gables, Carlisle, Huntzberg. Gables shot a trespassing teenager with an antique pistol in the chest. No. Carlisle - shot the two young sons of his girlfriend through the head. Maybe. Huntzberg – abducted and shot two schoolchildren through the head when he reached the age of majority. Maybe."

**Time's up, Sherlock**

**Last name?**

"They both used hunting rifles!" said Sherlock, glaring down at the files as if incensed by the lack of originality displayed in their choice of firearms.

**Choose NOW**

John could do nothing to ease the wild desperation in Sherlock's eyes, but gave him a nod of support as he glanced back all the same.

Sherlock turned back to the camera. "Huntzberg," he said. "Kevin Huntzberg."

**Oh that was thrilling, wasn't it Sherlock?**

**I just love watching your thoughts in action! Especially when you come so, SO close!**

The entire conference room tensed.

**How rude of me! Let me introduce you to Kevin L. Carlisle.**

Onscreen, Kevin Carlisle sagged in relief against his bonds. John couldn't tell if he was laughing or crying through his gag, but he seemed more than happy with the sacrifice of little Kevin Urquhart's life for his own. The poor blond mite looked petrified.

**Now comes my second favorite part**

**The prize!**

"Bloody hell," said Lestrade. "He means killing the kid."

**Killing **_**a**_** kid, Inspector, be accurate**

**I know I implied that I already had one picked out, but I'm just **_**so**_** changeable **

"What do you mean?" asked Sherlock. "You're not decided?"

**Carlisle's sniveling has been **_**grating on my nerves**_

**They aren't gagged for **_**your**_** benefit, after all**

**And I just had so much fun watching you almost solve this case just now =)**

**It practically made up for my ruined plans**

**What do you think?**

**Should I throw my dancing monkey a bone?**

"Yes," said Sherlock immediately. The conference room held a collective breath. "Yes. Please."

The barrel of the rifle drifted between the two Kevins, drawing out the suspense. It hovered for a long moment over Kevin Urquhart, then swung to the left and fired, splattering the backdrop with the hot red gore of Kevin L. Carlisle, Murderer.

"Ergh," said John. "That kid's going to need years of therapy."

"I'm just grateful that even psychopaths recognize that a sod who kills their girlfriend's children is, in fact, a useless whiny bastard," said Lestrade.

**Careful, Officer, you would just hate it if that somehow became a sound bite…**

Lestrade's jaw tightened.

**The last round will be a double feature. **

**No more hints. I want to see some of those big wizard-like intuitive leaps you're so famous for**

**Tomorrow, sunset. I have some arrangements to make ;)**

**TTFN, darling**

Sherlock shut the laptop, crinkling his brow.

"Kevin Carlisle, that gives us a lead. I'll send some of the overnight officers to investigate how his disappearance was covered up. Wong's too," said Lestrade.

"He seems reluctant to actually kill one of the real children – he's being more charitable than the spirit of the game calls for," said Sherlock. "Why?"

"Sherlock, these games are never Moriarty's real focus. No matter how elaborate they are. It's you, it's always you. Maybe he's content just seeing you scramble?" suggested John.

"Maybe he doesn't want to deal with the public backlash," said Donovan. "We're not going to keep the journalists out of this for much longer and there'll be much more outcry if real children are dying."

"Maybe," said Lestrade. "But what we need to discuss now is the next victims. You've already identified the arsonist, right Sherlock?"

"Oren McAllister is the only potential candidate in the system. That doesn't rule out uncaught or active criminals, such as Marissa, but it's unlikely to be anyone else. He would give us a better lead if it were."

"And he fits the profile?"

"He was charged in 2006 for setting a children's home on fire. Three children died; several more suffered minor injury."

"Alright. Let's say the arsonist is squared away. What about the last one?"

John slid the cardboard book across the table. "That one's harder. Six little children want to stay alive, who's the last victim, you can only keep five? If there's a hint in that last stanza, we can't find it."

"That's the point," said Sherlock. "He wants to see wizardry, as he puts it. He means for me to deduce the answer, not find it."

"How?"

"We'll see," said Sherlock. "We have until tomorrow night; perhaps more evidence will be unearthed in the meantime."

Lestrade sighed. "Okay. I'll assign officers to check out the disappearances of Wong and Carlisle, and then I'll take you back to Baker Street."

"Add McAllister to the list," said Sherlock. "He'll have already disappeared too, if he's who we think he is. Also, let me change first."

John noted how Sherlock's bony ankles poked out of his current tracksuit bottoms as he handed him the pile of clothing he himself had just outgrown. He was glad that he was again able to fit into his normal wardrobe and hoped that Sherlock would soon, as well – beyond the pride he took in his various disguises, Sherlock at any age despised looking ridiculous.

* * *

><p>"You may as well come up," said Sherlock as Lestrade pulled up to Baker Street. "Mummy insists on tea before she and Father leave. She can be hard to dissuade."<p>

"What, really?"

"If you do not come up with us, I will hear about it for the next three years." Sherlock cast a pained look down at his mother's text messages. "She no doubt wants to interrogate you about our day and tell you about whatever inane musical she and Father patronized on this particular visit to London."

"Hey, now, your mother seemed lovely when we met before."

"Did she? Excellent. Come up for tea."

And so Lestrade found himself in the kitchen, watching Mrs. Holmes make up a fresh pot of tea as she as she assured him that she had borrowed Mrs. Hudson's kettle.

"We've learned our lesson about Sherlock's kitchenware, haven't we dear – even when he was living at home we'd find tadpoles in the blender, road kill in the icebox. On top of my plum pudding one year, even."

"Disgusting stuff," muttered Sherlock.

"What was that, dear?"

"We've actually sorted out a system about that," said John hastily. "No poisons stored in containers that may have or might again hold food. Human body parts go on the bottom shelf of the refrigerator only. Little stuff like that."

"And he _listens?_" gasped Mrs. Holmes.

"That's enough!" said Sherlock. His ears flushed pink.

"Well, it doesn't stop him from experimenting on me," said John. "But you don't ask a fish not to swim."

"Well, that's something, at least," said Lestrade. "I remember Sally found eyeballs in the microwave on the first drugs-ahem, _visit, _here." He glanced guiltily at Sherlock's parents.

With bad fortune but good timing, John winced and braced himself against the kitchen table.

"John, dear, are you all right?" asked Mrs. Holmes.

"Oof. Heading into my rugby days, it would seem." He peeled off his shirt and prodded at the large bruise inching across his torso. "I caught a tackle in the ribs. It'll clear up soon, especially since I'm seventeen – honestly, the difference in physique between now and my actual age is depressing. I thought I was in relatively good shape – I was fooling myself, trust me, compared to this."

"Let me see that. It's probably a good thing that most of us don't get a taste of what we've lost, hmm?" said Mrs. Holmes, peering at his side.

Mr. Holmes nudged Lestrade and nodded toward Sherlock, who was standing slack-jawed at the edge of the kitchen. He was openly staring at the shirtless (and admittedly quite fit) young John until he noticed his father and Lestrade watching him. He turned bright red and scuttled backwards into the hall. A second later, they heard his bedroom door slam shut.

Mr. Holmes grinned. "Sherlock never shared much about his crushes when he was an actual young teenager – this is an absolute pleasure," he whispered.

Lestrade was too busy dying of second-hand embarrassment to properly appreciate the sentiment.

* * *

><p>John and Sherlock woke up the next day (past noon – their youth was making itself known) to several texts from Lestrade regarding developments on the investigations.<p>

"Promising," said Sherlock, scrolling through the messages. "So long as the Yard doesn't botch it up from here on out."

"I think it's speeding up," said John, studying his arms. "The spell, I mean. The aging. If I'm this tan, it means I've been deployed already. And you, you look full grown. Skinny and young, yes, but at least adult."

"Possibly. It's common enough for powerful spells to unravel more quickly near the end of their life spans, according to my thankfully reestablished mind palace." He took a large bite of the bacon sandwich John had made for him – he could hardly remember this sort of hunger, which he surmised could be attributed to the growth spurt he'd endured overnight.

Sherlock's phone buzzed. "It's Lestrade again," he said, reading. "He put an officer on searching everybody on record named Macie, Eleanor, Todd, Beatrice, or Adele who has committed crimes against children. There are hundreds of candidates."

"So do you have any idea who the final criminal is?" asked John. "We can't possibly sort them out from that, not without more information."

"I do have an idea," said Sherlock.

"Well, who is it then?"

"What has this entire case been about? Right from the beginning?"

"Well… Children?" suggested John. "Crimes against children?"

"And what's the very first thing that comes to your mind when you hear of crimes against children? What type of criminal do you picture?"

John was silent for a moment. "Oh," he said.

"Indeed."

* * *

><p>It was late afternoon by the time John and Sherlock walked back into Lestrade's conference room. The first thing he said to them was, "Christ, is he <em>high<em>?"

"No," answered John, glaring at Sherlock. "And he is going to stay that way if it kills me. We almost had an incident earlier, Greg, and by the way, your team did _not_ find everything on your last bust."

Lestrade stared at Sherlock, who had stretched and thinned since the night before into something more pale and gaunt. He looked ill.

"This, Lestrade," said Sherlock, throwing himself down into a chair, "is what happens when you take a physiological addiction and _don't feed it._"

"Your past drug use," realized Lestrade, eyeing the unhealthy sheen to Sherlock's skin. "Will you be all right for the final round?"

"This will _hardly_ be the first time I've solved a case in this state," said Sherlock, glaring.

"What Sherlock _means_," said John, "is that he'll do his best. Neither of us predicted that his drug years would manifest as constant withdrawal."

Lestrade looked back and forth between them and sighed. "That'll have to do," he said. "We're already setting up the link."

"So is there any new information on the case?" asked John, sinking into the chair next to Sherlock's. "Anything we should know about?"

"One of my teams arrested two recently-hired penitentiary guards on the suspicion of aiding Mr. Carlisle's prison break, but they're not giving us much to go on."

"Nothing at all?"

"Well, Donovan thinks they had an accomplice; she's tracking them down now. Someone higher on the totem pole, not that that would be difficult - these aren't hardened professionals we're talking about. Low levels, more likely, but they seem afraid to talk."

"Can't you see that it _doesn't matter?_" exploded Sherlock, pushing to his feet. "Even a full confession from an accomplice that _wasn't _less important than pond scum wouldn't do more than waste your time – the final round starts in less than _ten minutes._ You're deluding yourself to think they stand any chance of rescue at this point."

Lestrade's face went tight and angry before he sagged and just looked tired. "I _know_," he said. "God, I know. But I, my team – we can't do nothing."

"Yes, well." Sherlock squirmed in an uncomfortable gesture that John suspected was meant to convey an apology.

Amendola stood from where she'd been monitoring the channel. "We're ready, sir."

Lestrade took a deep breath and nodded to Sherlock, who positioned himself in front of the familiar dancing spider.

"Oren McAllister," said Sherlock. He leaned in front of the laptop camera and clenched the conference table in a white-knuckled grip.

**Are you absolutely positive? It would just be terrible if you chose the wrong person…**

"Your idea of mind games is laughable; refrain from these displays of stupidity in the future," said Sherlock. "Of course I'm certain."

**My, my, we **_**have**_** grown up fast, haven't we? **

**It seems like only yesterday that that question would have given you pause**

**What happened to you between then and now? Besides the obvious, of course**

Sherlock paused, brows drawing together. He pulled out a chair and lowered himself into it, eyes fixed on the animated avatar. "That's not what we're here for," he said slowly.

**I did pick you to play with, after all**

**I like to know where my toys have been, and this is such a fun way to find out, don't you think?**

There was a flurry of movement as an officer hurried into the room and pulled Lestrade into the hall, but all John could focus on was the tremor in Sherlock's hands as he steepled his fingers.

"You mean this whole affair," said Sherlock. "Not only this particular line of questioning. You've been observing my childhood and adolescence in this limited, hand-me-down way."

**And I've learned EVER so much about you these past few days**

**It's a dull, dull man who only does one thing at a time. How **_**boring**_

Sherlock was silent for a moment before he looked up and repeated, "Oren McAllister."

**Pushy, pushy, dear Sherlock. You'll have to wait for his pyre to be properly stacked – whatever shall we discuss in the meantime?**

**Oh I know…**

"You want the final name," said Sherlock, staring directly into the camera. "And then you'll let the other five children go? Just like that?"

**If you explain your choice to my liking, I'll immediately leave them to the police. Scout's honor =D**

A harried-looking Lestrade read the screen as he reentered the room. He nodded and said, "Go on, then."

Sherlock pushed out of his chair and started pacing, keeping in view of the camera. "You've so far targeted criminals guilty of corporate negligence, illegal adoption and kidnapping, murder, and arson, all of which resulted in the deaths of children. The cases have escalated in nature, with each sequential criminal having greater malicious intent and scope than their predecessor." He stopped.

**Keep going, Sherlock, I just love hearing that brain of yours hard at work**

Sherlock looked at the laptop. "Not all criminals had been brought to justice – Marissa Cartwright was still actively trafficking and had never had so much as an ASBO."

**True. It's such a shame you picked her – she could have been very useful**

**But I'm sure that you of all people understand that saying about omelets and eggs =P**

"So it's likely that the final criminal will be an escalation of the previous crimes and a sort of quintessential crime against children. There conveniently happens to be an entire category of crime that fits both of these criteria in the mind of the public. It is also overwhelmingly likely that this final criminal was never caught."

**Oh? Why's that?**

"Because, fortunately enough, the pool of incarcerated pedophiles or child pornographers who like to murder their victims is quite small in the U.K. All known offenders have been accounted for as of this afternoon."

"Actually," interrupted Lestrade. "We just received an alert that one inmate is missing. Barry Scezniak, he was in the papers a few years back for –"

"The hamlets outside of Milton Keynes, yes," said Sherlock.

"But he was definitely in custody earlier today," continued Lestrade. "It can't be him."

"He was flagged because of the similarities between his own disappearance and those of the other missing inmates?"

"Yes. But he doesn't even have the right name."

"Lestrade. The peanut allergy, the packaging, the hunting rifle. The pyre. How exactly do you imagine this ending for the final victim?"

"Oh, Jesus," said John, staring at Sherlock.

**Hourglass is running low, boys**

**Name that name and five of these kids are yours to collect**

**If not, well**

**Mr. Scezniak has been very lonely these past few years**

"There's no need to resort to crass threats," snapped Sherlock. "We're already playing your game. Don't lower yourself to casually tossing child rape into the discussion."

**You're right, that was beneath me. **

**Nonetheless, your time is up**

**Your choices remain: Macie, Eleanor, Todd, Kevin, Beatrice, and Adele**

"Why even include Kevin? Obviously it's not him." Sherlock glared at the computer before continuing. "It's not impossible that the perpetrator is a female but given the class of crime we're dealing with, it's monumentally unlikely. That leaves only one choice – Todd."

**Tell your police dogs they can come and get the other children now **

**OH btw you better hurry…**

The screen changed to an indecipherable flare of light. After a second, the camera zoomed out, revealing a short fuse leading to a stack of wooden pallets. A small red-haired boy was strapped to the top. His nametag said 'Oren.' He looked like he was screaming.

**Some clichés are cliché for a reason**

The entire screen whited out as the pallets, evidently doused with accelerant, caught fire. The camera struggled with the brightness differential, but as it came back into focus it panned to reveal another fuse, lit by the conflagration of Oren's pyre.

**I just can't resist a good old fashioned evil villain fuse sometimes**

The camera followed the second, longer, fuse to another stack of pallets, atop which all the remaining children were tied.

"Todd's not there," said Sherlock stupidly.

**Of course he's not. You're just SO predictable, Sherlock… Mr. Scezniak dropped by for him over half an hour ago**

**Did you think this was just a test for you, Sherlock? Can't let you have ALL the fun**

**Let's see who can get to the kiddos first: the Yard or the fire **

**Any bets?**

The screen blanked out.

A second of horrified silence fell before Lestrade pulled out his phone and barked "Sally, now! Get the team in there now!"

* * *

><p>They were almost to the scene when Lestrade heaved a sigh of relief and disconnected. "They'll be all right," he informed the car. "Emergency services were already en route. Some of them are suffering from mild smoke inhalation, but nothing more severe than that."<p>

"When Lieutenant Moore pulled you out of the conference room," said Sherlock. "Donovan had found them."

"She followed the accomplice from the prison-breaks back to a disused warehouse where the children were being kept and radioed in for backup. I told her to hold tight and more officers arrived just around the time the fuse was lit, thank god. Pull up here, Lieutenant."

They exited the car to a chaotic bustle of responders. Red and blue lights glanced off the wet pavement, illuminating the scene almost jauntily. As they ducked under the police cordon, Donovan broke away from the gaggle of EMTs and officers to meet them. "We're contacting their parents now," she said, gesturing towards the huddle of children wrapped in orange shock blankets and receiving oxygen. "Luckily, they're all old enough to give us contact information. We'll need to wait for positive identification, of course, but I'm fairly certain these are all actual children."

"It's pretty likely - the only victim we haven't confirmed as one of the criminals is Todd."

Sally's air of quiet triumph dampened and she cast a look back towards the warehouse. "We've found him, too. In the front office of the building. The body… well, it's pretty easy to guess what crime he was suspected of."

Lestrade grimaced. "Yeah."

"Sally," Sherlock broke in, looking everywhere but at her. "This all… this was well done."

John was nearly overcome with an urge to giggle at the awkwardness with which Sherlock offered his compliment. Donovan looked completely taken aback.

"Well, somebody's got to pick up the slack when the one and only consulting detective is stuck filling his diapers," she said after a moment.

"The role reversal demands it," replied Sherlock, clearly relieved to be back on more familiar ground.

"Speaking of which," said Sally, "you seem almost back to normal. John, you may want to use that anaesthetic on your shoulder pretty soon."

"It's at home – Stamford dropped some off, but he didn't get off work until we'd already left for the Yard. Hopefully it'll hold off till we get back."

"We'll go now," said Sherlock. "You both have plenty to do here. I assume that the perpetrators are long gone, but let us know if anything turns up."

"The only adult we've found on premises was found alongside Todd, dead. Shot in the forehead."

"Makes sense," said Sherlock. "Come along, John."

* * *

><p>Back at the flat, a shirtless John depressed the plunger of the final unit of lidocaine and set the empty syringe aside on the kitchen table with the others. Tingles ran up and down his left side as he slowly lost all feeling in his arm and shoulder, but he'd gladly take a limp flop of a limb over feeling the bullet again. He leaned back in his chair and experimentally tried to wiggle his fingers.<p>

"Do you think I should wait for this in the bathroom? It was a pretty large wound – even if it closes up quickly it's likely there will be more bleeding than we're used to," said John. He glanced up to see Sherlock propping his mouth and nose to his clasped hands, eyebrows furrowed in deep thought. "Sherlock?"

"Hmm? Oh, it doesn't matter. It's certainly not as if the kitchen's never seen a little blood," answered Sherlock, pulling out of his reverie.

"Still thinking about the case?" said John, shifting to angle his own line of sight away from his left side. "Seems to me like it turned out pretty well."

Sherlock paused, eyes lingering on John's exposed shoulder. "The Yard would agree," he finally answered. He pulled out his phone and thumbed it on. "Lestrade says Todd's DNA came up as a match for a rape kit registered back in 2007. Although it may take awhile to identify him and his alleged underage victims, there is at least conclusive evidence that he is A: actually an adult; and B: not a very nice one."

"Well go on, keep talking," said John when Sherlock again fell silent. "Distract me from the big bloody crater that's about to be blown into my arm. What aren't you happy about?"

"It's very convenient for Lestrade that the only victims in this case are people who will not find advocates among the media or the public," said Sherlock, "but this is hardly a win. Moriarty controlled this encounter from start to finish."

"Yeah, but you were a kid for most of it. You can't beat yourself up being outmaneuvered."

"Not just outmaneuvered – manipulated, anticipated, exploited. Even when I was wrong he set things up to maintain his vision."

"So what are you going to do?" John asked.

"First," said Sherlock, subjecting John's shoulder to intense scrutiny, "I'm going to wait for my blogger to stop bleeding."

John processed his meaning just as a warm trickle of blood started to snake down his unnumbed midsection. "Oh, my god," he said, looking down at his fresh wound and immediately wishing he hadn't. He looked back up at Sherlock, giddy with relief. "I can't tell you how glad I am that this worked! I didn't even feel it hit!"

"Congratulations," said Sherlock, wetting a clean towel and handing it to him.

"It's already sealing," said John, carefully wiping blood from the edges of his injury. "The muscle was fucked for months afterwards, but as long as I can't feel it now I should be good."

"Excellent. And secondly, I'll do the only thing I can do - prepare for next time." Sherlock took the towel from John and gently mopped up the blood that had trickled down his back and side from the bullet's exit wound. John watched him with half-lidded eyes.

"Next time?"

"I have little desire to be so thoroughly outplayed again." Sherlock pulled away and tossed the bloodstained towel in the sink. "He'll be back." Sherlock caught his eye and John felt a frisson of connection that banished the lassitude that his rush of relief had left in its wake. Sherlock held his gaze steadily, his eyes conveying challenge and purpose and just the tiniest hint of a question. John straightened his spine and answered staunchly:

"Let the bastard come." He nodded, sharp and decisive. "We'll be ready."


End file.
